Isabella
by Prescilla Jones
Summary: "I'm conflicted about the darkness now. I love its beauty, its peacefulness, its calmness. But I don't ever want to experience that negativity, helplessness, and pain ever again. But isn't that what I'm living in now?" Prescilla is a 15 year old girl struggling through the grieving process. Isabella is a 15 year old girl who couldn't handle her life at home, and decided to end it.
1. Author's Words

**Author's Words**

All of the characters in this book resemble someone special in my life. In fact the main character and title of this book, Isabella, is my closest friend. She has been a huge inspiration to me throughout my childhood, and I felt that writing about her was the only way I could ever repay her. She's an author herself, and has helped me multiple times with producing this piece or art I have created for my readers. Many of the events that happen to Isabella and dreams that she has are actual occurrences in my friend's life. I won't give out a name due to personal reasons, but I felt it appropriate to share with you that these are not mere creations that have crawled form the deepest pits of my imagination and sprawled themselves into words strategically arranged and bound into a book. They are real life situations that I felt others may be able to relate to.

Yes, I wrote this book partially for my own amusement, but I also wanted to write a book that inspired others. So many times have I picked up a book, been sucked in, and walked away with a new mindset of the world. This doesn't occur as much with modern works so much as classics, such as A Separate Peace or Fahrenheit 451 especially, but every book has a deeper inner meaning. An author does not write simply for the means of entertaining others. **Imagination is not without soul.** Every book has a piece of the author etched into every word on every page. Even an essay written and turned into a teacher has retained some of the author. And I wanted to create a book that would help a struggling person see the light of the situation. The realization may not occur directly after the last word of the book has been digested, but I'd like someone to pick up my book and remember how much it helped them.

I enjoy pleasing others. My whole life has been about making friends and meeting strangers [yes, there's a difference] and making everyone [young, old, fat, thin, rich, poor, happy, or depressed] **smile**. There's something about seeing that jagged toothed grin that makes me feel accomplished on the inside. After being bullied for many years in elementary school, I made it my goal to never make anyone feel as poorly as others had made me feel, and I vowed that no matter who it was, if I saw someone whose eyes screamed at me to accept them, I'd lend a helping hand. I've grown up in a place where being smart, 'conserved', and curvy is outrageous. There are a select few of us who take honors classes, other people have sex as an extracurricular activity, and everyone is either a toothpick or on the verge of obesity. I don't fit in well with _anyone_ really, but being a part of the band helps. For the most part, we all get along. We are like a second family. And I want to give something to people that helps them find their 'band family' like I found mine. I learned to accept the small things life gave me and not to linger of the things I either didn't get or desperately wanted. I hope this book with allow people to realize the importance of moving forward and opening your eyes to the bright side of the world [wherever that may be].


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

_I feel so far away from her. _

We used to be inseparable, but nowadays there's everything between us. High school made a lot of changes to our lives. I signed up for honors again, and she decided she no longer wanted to take the advanced classes. Honors literature is the only class we share. She wants to be an author. Actually, at this time, I am editing one of her novels. She's such an amazing writer; I wish I had her talent, but I have a lot more for her to want than me of her. But she doesn't. She's not selfish, or greedy, or loathsome of anyone but her parents and the man who murdered a girl in her sleep. She's not a bad person deep down like I am. She refuses to get stepped on by people bigger than her. She'll rush right by them before she offers them that chance, even if she's not going to be late if she walks. I let people minor myself. I change who I am to 'fit in' or to 'stand out.' I'm in a world where it's impossible for a person to be who they really are, but she conquered the world. She stands with the world spinning at her command on the tip of her pinky.

_I miss her._

I treasure the things she does when she's close. I love to wear the flash-drive that contains her life. If anything happened to it, she would fall to pieces. Her novel is one of the most important things to her. Aaron and I fall directly under that category as well, Aaron being above me for obvious reasons. I watched him propose. I was promised a show on Valentine's Day, and I was rewarded with the biggest smile. I love her red-braced grin. It's so infrequently an occurrence of realness, it was beautiful to see. She rarely isn't forcing a smile to her pale cheeks. When it's natural, it's like the first blooming rose of spring propped in the hand of an angel. I love that she let me keep one of her pens. I've never been able to figure out why, but she holds them close to her. She always clicks them a certain way and a certain number of times. She writes with a specific one most of the time, not always simply because that's all she has to write with. And she never, _never_ lets other people have her pens.

_What happened to us?_

I know that school separated us physically, but mentally and emotionally, we're falling apart. I see her between almost every class and I try to get as many hugs as I can. I used to not be a hugger. I didn't like touching people, especially if I didn't know them that well, but I was always okay with hugging her. Her hugs are special to me. I went through a rough childhood at school, and she pulled me through the end of it. Granted, I can't put my childhood say in when it comes to who had it worse, but I still struggled. Her hugs let me know that she cared, and that's all I ever wanted. For someone to care about Prescilla. I try to get as much care out of her as possible, and I get jealous when she cares for other people. That's why I make sure I get two hugs, one when I arrive and one when we depart. I believe it's her caring for me first and last, no matter how many others come between that.

_Lucifer is the angel of choice._

She chose the classes that separated us. She chose him over me. She chose to brutally kill him, separating us farther. Choices, choices, choices. Life is full of them. Life is also full of regret. I regret letting her demote herself. I regret not being there for her when we were small, or I'd have always been her number one. I regret not answering her phone call that night.


	3. Chapter 1 Sparrow

Chapter 1~Sparrow

I look at the lyrics to the lullaby, so beautifully written in cursive across the lined paper, and try to imagine her soft voice humming them into my ear. Her voice flows in the back of my mind with the mixture of harmonics and nature's soft whistle. Birds spread their wings on a current and carry themselves from tree to tree overhead; the canopy dances with the wind to the measures I play out with my vocal chords, adding a new element to nature's beauty. Beside me, my bare feet dangle into a lazy stream, and tadpoles kiss my ruby toes. The water trickles against rocks, creating a beautiful bass to settle my song onto. I lean back against the rough bark of a tree and swirl my toes on top of the water.

She loved nature.

I come out here and sit by the river every day, trying to think of where she may have gone to. Sometimes I contemplate whether she committed suicide somewhere. I always try to push that thought out of my mind. But she was so broken inside; it's a huge possibility that she may have done it. I don't like to think of her hanging from a tree somewhere in the middle of a forest or floating on her back down a river with a bullet hole in her head. But then again, no one wants to picture their best friend lying dead in a ditch somewhere. I close my eyes and allow the sounds of nature to surround me again, calming my unruly thoughts. Lately, all I've thought about is whether or not she is going to be found alive. I've been having nightmares. I'm not sure if they're about her or about me or maybe about someone completely off topic, but I always wake screaming and crying.

* * *

I'm always standing in the middle of a forest, but I'm not me. It's like I'm out of my body, a camera following the action in a movie. It's dark, but the full moon sneaks through the canopy and casts eerie shadows all around me. I get the feeling I'm being watched, but no matter where I look, all I see is darkness. I try to call out to anyone who may answer, but my lips won't move. When I walk forward, it's like I'm a ghost floating through space. There are no crunching leaves when I put my foot down. Nothing is disturbed. I reach down to pick up a leaf, but it's flat and smooth like a painting. All around me crickets play their evil chants, warning me something's coming. Owl's in the distance howl back at snarling wolves. Something pulls at my hair and my head slams into a rock, not a part of this blurry painting. I'm dragged along the ground into denser forest, where the moon doesn't break through the canopy. Sticks and rocks break through the painting and scrape across my back as I'm pulled along the forest floor. The specks of light pull away from me and I'm surrounded by nothing but staring shadows.

Pain grips at the back of my neck as I'm jerked into a tree. Through blurry vision, I see a girl, maybe Isabella's size, maybe not- I'm always too far way to tell, come running through the darkness. The moon illuminates the hooded girl as she runs through the splotches of light. She trips on a tree stump and turns to look behind her as she pushes herself up. Our eyes meet momentarily in her hast to check her flank. In that moment I catch the sparkle in her ocean-blue eyes, and blonde eyelashes. Her face is small, almost child-like. I take her in like I've known her for years. Sharp, defined features, chapped lips, and strands of golden hair that fall from under her grey hood. I store her face like a photo in the back of my mind, safe from evil hands who would want to tamper with my memories. My head is jerked again by something pulling my hair. This time I'm yanked into the air and thrown. Fierce wind whips my hair against my face as I soar through the air. Shades of black and dark grey speed past me until my face slams into a tree. My vision is hazy for a moment and I believe that I'm going to black out, but I don't. There's a painful throb in the back of my head, and I reach my hand around to touch it. Unexpectedly, a hand grabs mine.

"Come on! We have to go!" It's a familiar voice. One I've grown used to hearing, but also to hate. I turn to face the person yanking on my hand and stare into a set of deep brown eyes. They flare like the sun around the pupil, laced with long black lashes that blink rapidly at me. I'm amazed at what I'm seeing, and pull away from the eyes. "What's the matter? Let's go!" _I can't go. Not with you._ "Fine. Stay here and mope. I don't care!" she says, running off without me. She pulls a grey hood up over her silky brown hair and takes off in a dead sprint.

"Wait!" I call after her. _Is this the girl I just made eye contact with only moments ago? Why, it couldn't be? She was blonde and had gorgeous blue eyes!_ "Wait for me!" I have to find out who this girl is. For a moment I thought she was _me._ I must find some answers. I pick myself up and go to take a step after her, but I fall to my face and am grabbed around the ankles. I kick, but whoever it is has a solid grip. I'm pulled back and my chin scrapes across the grounded roots of the tree I slammed into. My body is lifted off the ground and thrown into another tree. But it's not a tree. It's a wall painted to look like a tree, just like the leaves on the ground. I can hear all of the bones in my back pop as I smash into the stiff wall and fall to the ground on my hands and knees. I scrape my hand across the ground, but the roots are real? I look up into the eyes of my enemy. They are a pale shade of green, etched with a soft teal and covered by sweat soaked brown bangs. The pupil is dilated in the dark, searching for a light. I feel like I'm staring into his heart as I gaze into his eyes. He snarls and slaps me across the face, forcing my gaze down. When I look back up, I see myself in the reflection of his eyes, but it's not me. I shriek and back up into the tree. I'm looking into the blue eyes of the blonde girl who fell in the light. But how can that be? The man rears back and brings his fist into my face.

This is usually the part where I wake up.

She used to have nightmares, too. She used to tell me about them all the time. She'd watch as, one by one, all of her friends slowly and painfully died around her, and there was never anything she could do about it. She always just watched. I can't imagine myself watching all of my friends die slow, painful deaths in front of me. It's as bad as thinking about her committing suicide. It's not right. It's not something that should be thought about. It's not something that should be dreamt about. It's not something she should have to deal with every night while I sleep comfortably in a loving bed every night. She had pain. She had worries. She had a life planned out solely to listen to and comfort others while she endured pain and misery and a load of bullshit. I had nothing. No worries, no cares, and not a damn thing to stop me from wanting to come home and see my mother every day. But what did I ever do about it? Write about how I wish I could help her in my stupid fucking journal. That's what I did. I did nothing to help her. And when she needed me most, I ignored her because I found other friends with no worries and no cares just like me. Because I wanted to 'fit in.' Because I wanted to be 'cool.' Well, being 'cool' put a lot of worries and a lot of cares in my head. I don't want to go home to my mom now. I just want to stay out here and enjoy nature like she did. I want to think like she did. So open minded and accepting of everything and everyone worth the acceptance.

I lean my head back against the tree and stare up at the canopy. Orange sky peeks through the swaying trees, still dancing to the song in the back of their minds. The sun's starting to go down over the horizon. I stare at it out over the water. It's beautiful. Isabella would've loved it. There wasn't much about nature that she didn't love. She even accepted death. She faced a lot of it. Her grandmother, her best friend, and her pet sparrow. God, how she loved that damn bird. Her mother wouldn't let her keep it, but her grandmother had told her, "If he wants you as bad as you want him, he'll never leave you." Isabella hadn't understood her grandmother's words until he came to her again. She was sitting on top of a hill in the woods behind her house swinging high into the air. It was her favorite thing to do. Swinging was an escape for her. It also gave her a place to think about other people's problems that she was posed to fix.

The bird came to her.

"You're a beautiful creature; aren't you?" she said to the bird flying around the swing-set. She stopped swinging and just sat there watching the beautiful bird soar all around her. She stood up and did circles, following it with her body. She began to dance beneath the sparrow, a childish dance composed merely of spinning in circles and moving her arms about her, but a dance all the same. When she fell to the ground laughing and panting, the bird swooped down and perched itself on her chest. Amazed, she held her finger up to the bird who happily jumped onto it. When she held her finger up to pet the bird, he flew away. "Wait! Sparrow come back!" she called out to the bird. When he flew back to her shoulder she said to him, "You like that; don't you, boy? Sparrow." After that, all she talked about was how she cooed a bird to be her friend. He was always there, waiting for her when she went to swing. She never saw him anywhere else.

"How are you today, Sparrow?" she'd greet him whenever she arrived. He'd sing her a happy tune as he flew down to perch on her shoulder. She'd swing for hours, talking to him about her day and all the shit she had to put up with at school that day. If she was ever having trouble at home, she'd leave in the middle of the night and go swing with Sparrow. That sparrow became her best friend. She'd built a shelter for him to live in during winter. It's not like it ever snowed, but she didn't want him freezing. She spent most of her next seven summers swinging or reading on the hill with Sparrow. Eight years later, on the first warm day of the year, she went to see Sparrow. She walked up the hill in her usual pants and grey jacket carrying a tiny red lunch box with a jelly sandwich, Sunny-D, a packet of crackers, and her book for the day in it. "Sparrow! I'm here, boy!" she whistled out to him because sometimes he wandered off away from the swings. She waited for a moment before whistling again. _Oh well, he'll show up soon. In the mean time…_ She took her jacket off and laid it down on the ground, sprawled out on top of it, and cracked open her book. After about an hour or so of reading, she put her book down and picked up the jelly sandwich. She had started to get worried about Sparrow. _He should be here by now._

She put her sandwich back in the baggie and decided to go looking for him with the crackers. He always came when he heard the rustling of the packet. She started at the house she'd built for him first, but all that was in there was a nest, perfectly spun to fill the entire house, but keep him warm in the winter. She'd helped him make it, searching for twigs and pine needles and sprawling them around the hill so he could pick them up like _he_ had been the one to find them. She reached in to feel, but it wasn't warm. Where could he have been so long that his nest had gone cold? She called out to him as she walked around the woods, searching for her friend. "Sparrow! Sparrow, where are you, boy? I brought you a snack!" she whistled, and called, and rustled the packet until the clouds grew dark. She gave up her search and headed back to the hill. By the time she got there, it had started to sprinkle. She dashed home as the rain poured down on her. Her mother yelled at her for being wet when she ran inside, but she ignored her and went to her room to change. She sat in the living room staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking her backyard. She lived out near the country and had a lot of land, so the look extended down to a child's swing-set she'd swung on when she was a toddler, and steep hill, and a creek that flooded every winter, but went dry in the summer. Rain pelted against the glass, the sound drumming into her head. It was pouring so hard, she could barely see the railing that only stretched out fifteen feet from the glass.

Every day after that, when she went to the swings, Sparrow wasn't there. For the first two months, she spent the entire day calling out to him, looking in new locations, and leaving him snacks everywhere, but she knew other birds would eat them before he got the chance. She eventually stopped looking and spent her days sulkily swinging, just like she used to. The last month of her summer, she blocked everyone out and stayed on the hill all day, hoping Sparrow would just show up. On the day before school started back, she couldn't sleep, so she went to the swings. She wasn't even disappointed when Sparrow wasn't there to greet her. She sat on the swing and dragged her toes across the dirt, thinking about Sparrow. In the back of her mind she could hear the tune he'd sing her whenever she first arrived on the hill. She whistled out her reply and allowed the tear to roll down her cheek. She felt something heavy hit her shoulder and Sparrow's tune echoed back to her. She jumped with joy that her friend was finally back with her. She stayed on the swings all night whistling back and forth to him, not even bothering to go back home when the sun rose. She skipped the first day, spending it with Sparrow.

She came home as though she had gotten off the bus, greeting her mother as she walked in the door. She came back to her room and started yelling at her for being in her pajamas when she needed to stay in her school clothes so she could get a picture. She ignored everything her mom was saying, popped the tags off her 'first day' clothes, and pulled them on over her head. Zombi-afied, she stood for the picture, changed out of her clothes, and went back to the swings. Sparrow wasn't there. She searched frantically until it got dark and she could hear her mom calling for her in the distance. Reluctantly, she trudged home. When she got there, she found her mom tending to a small black bird with a broken wing.

"Poor thing just slammed right into the glass. Second one this week," her mom said.

Isabella pushed her mom out of the way and held Sparrow in her arms. Aside from the wing, he was fine, but none of the birds Isabella and her mom saved from hitting the windows ever lived. She held the bird against her chest and a tear threatened to run down her cheek. Sparrow tried to call out his song for her, but went limp before he could sing the last note. Isabella held the tears back as best she could, but she broke out in a full sob in front of her mom.

"Now you stop that crying right here, right now. And I mean it. I won't have my daughter crying over some stupid bird that ran into the window. You've never cried over one before. Stop that. Now, I said stop that damn it!"

"Shut up, Mom! Just shut up! You don't know the half of it and you never will!"

She slapped her across the face, causing her to look down at the floor. She didn't move her hand to cover the wound that would leave a welt, but she looked up at her mother. She stared her deep in the eyes and told her she was a monster. She ran out of the house with Sparrow before her mother had a chance to say anything to her. She ran all the way to the swings before her knees buckled underneath her, and she cried. She wailed until the sun started to brighten the sky. She skipped the second day of school and buried Sparrow in the side of the hill by the house she'd made him. She left him there and walked away from the hill without turning back.

* * *

I think about how Isabella is such a strong person. Nobody can put up a front like she can. But if you're as good as I am at seeing past fronts, then Isabella is an open book to you. You can see every emotion she wants to tell you just by looking into her eyes. If she doesn't want anyone to know, even her eyes will lie to you. She always tries to act crestfallen, so when she truly is upset, nobody questions her. But her eyes tell me everything. They used to scream for me to help her, but I'd always turn away because I was too weak to look into her eyes, and I was to cowardice to do anything to soothe them. Those daggers that drove deeper into my heart every time she realized that her pleading stares were to the chorus of broken hearts, not the hero she lost to war. I was never the friend she wanted me to be, yet she still accepted me for the bitch I was. I've always thanked her for that, but I never got a chance to tell her.

I silently thank her as I walk home in the moon's lighted path, hoping she'll come back safe.


	4. Chapter 2 Eating Babies

**Chapter 2~ Eating Babies**

I close the back door behind me and tip-toe through the kitchen. Mom would have gone to bed by now, and I best not wake her up. She used to lecture me about how staying out until midnight every day, especially on a school night, wasn't safe or healthy for someone my age, but she stopped waiting and lecturing after about four months. Sometimes I can feel her eyes staring at me from the chair in the far corner of the living room. Whenever she waited for me, that's where I'd always find her. She'd never make a sound. I'd just walk by, her staring the entire time. I can feel her staring at me now, with puffy eyes and tears rolling down her rosy cheeks, pink from worry. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and call out to her, hoping she can't hear the stumbling sob in my voice, "I love you."

There's no reply, so I wipe my tears and clobber up the steps, taking them two at a time. I wrestle the lanyard off my neck containing two keys and a flash drive and shove a key into the lock in my door. I wiggle it ferociously until it clicks, and I shove the door open, letting it slam against the wall. How could I be so stupid to think she was sitting there waiting for me? She never is anymore. I used to think she cared, but now, she just goes to bed. No "Good night," no food in the microwave, no checking to make sure I came home safely. I could have been stolen, raped, and hacked up into bite size pieces and fed to a pack of angry, pet wolves, and she would never know. I throw myself onto my bed and wipe my tears onto my soft-pink pillowcase. I wish I was in a car, watching my friendly blurs fly by the window. They are the only comforting things I have left, aside from her lanyard and flash-drive, now that she's gone. I clutch the silver and blue flash-drive tightly in the palm of my hand until I can feel the blood spilling onto my arm from where the sharp edge digs into my flesh. I shove my head into my pillow and try to scream, but no sound comes out, just an exasperated wine from a heartbroken teenage girl, who recently lost a very close friend.

_She used to cry like this when no one was watching._

Her dog came bounding up her winding drive-way and pounced onto her as she stepped off the school bus. Rambunctious high-schoolers stuck their heads out the window and mocked her for being overtaken by a dog. She pushed Chance off of her and showed them a rather untasteful finger that they openly returned as the bus pulled away. Chance picked up a rather large stick and dragged it across the ground, following Isabella down the gravel road surrounded by thin, leaning trees. She erupted from the trees at a sprint and ran down the steep hill alongside her house, Chance attempting to follow her with the stick in his mouth. She ran until she reached the edge of the creek, with very little water flowing through it at this time of year. She took off her shoes, stuffed her socks into them and waded into the water. It was cool at first, but it warmed the longer she stood in it. Chance splashed in beside her and plopped the stick down into the water, making it splash onto her pants.

"Who's a good boy!" she said rubbing him behind the ears.

She picked up the stick and threw it as far as she could, splashing out of the water in the other direction as Chance chased after it. Chance's golden fur gleamed in the splotches of light that flecked through the broken canopy of the immense trees dotted throughout her yard. She watched him fumble with the stick as she ran. As he wrapped his mouth around it, she tripped and landed face-first into a puddle of mud. Soft fur brushed against her arm and a dry tongue scraped across her cheek. She pushed herself up and started wiping the mud from her face but got pushed back down.

"Chance, stop it, boy!"

She cleared her eyes and looked up at the fur brushing her arm.

"Hey there, Max!"

The black and brown German Sheppard pounced on her again. She pushed him off and ran back across the shallow part of the creek and up the hill. The dogs chased her, barking and circling her as they ran. Max crossed paths with Chance, and they tumbled down the hill, Max regaining his footing before Chance. Isabella beat them both to the door and locked them outside, Max scratching on the door for her to come back out and play some more. She knocked on the door until he stopped then walked down the hall to her room. She pushed the door open and flung herself onto her bed. She plopped down with a thud, the comforter flying up around her. Her shoes hit the floor and rolled under her bed as she kicked them off and rolled over to lie down. From down the hallway she could hear footsteps clobbering up the basement steps and unrhythmically stomping down the hallway.

"Isabella. Who's at the damn door?" said the man who pushed her door farther open and leaned against the doorframe. "Well? What the hell are you doing? Get your fat ass up of that damn bed and check the fucking door!"

He pounded against the door and she rolled over, staring him in the face. "What?" she said, indignantly.

"Don't _what_ me! Go check the damn door!"

With a sigh, she pushed herself up off the bed and shoved past her father. She took two steps down the hallway and opened the door for her father, not even bothering looking out the door. She gave him enough time to look through the doorway then closed it again. She pushed back by her father, examined the new hole he'd just made in her door, and plopped back down onto her bed, rolling over to face the wall. There was a spot on the wall she'd grown accustomed to staring at while listening to her intoxicated father scream at her to do things.

"Well who the hell was it? Don't just sit there. Who was it?"

"It was no one, Dad. I was knocking on the door because Max was scratching on it," she sighed and buried her face into her pillow.

"Well, just for not listening to me, take the damn trash out and put it beside the garbage cans."

She rolled back over and stared at him. He returned her hating glare for a moment before stumbling back down the hallway and clobbering down the basement steps. She pushed herself off the bed and lazily dragged herself down the hall and into the kitchen. She cleared the rows of empty beer cans off the counter and into the black trash bag she'd just removed from the trash can. She tied the top of it, slung it over her shoulder, and walked back down the hallway. Max and Chance were eager to see her outside again, and even happier to see that she'd brought trash with her. They raced ahead of her down the hill and around the side of the house to the trash cans. She threw the bag beside the big green cans and trudged back up the hill and into the house. She could have taken the shorter way and gone through the back door that led to the basement and up the steps to her room, but she didn't want to encounter her father again. She fell down on her bed for what she hoped was the last time and closed her eyes, fearing what she knew was to come.

_The nightmares poured in._

Isabella was walking down along a sidewalk with her mother, stopping every now and then to take pictures of Tiger Lilies and Johnny Jump Ups, the orange and purple flowers illuminated by the flash on her camera. Isabella spotted a multicolored rose bush and ran ahead to it. She clipped a pink-and-yellow rose from it and hid it behind her back. When her mom walked up, she surprised her and threw her hands into her face. Her mother grabbed the purple-and-blue rose and gave her a great big hug. _Hold on, I thought the one I picked was a different color? _she thought to herself. Her mom released her hug, took Isabella's hand, and continued down the sidewalk. Everything aside from the peach pavement and the brightly colored flowers was black. It was as though she was walking during the darkest hours of the night.

The sound of a baby crying echoed all around Isabella and her mother. They spun in circles until they saw an unaccompanied stroller rolling along off in the distance. Isabella stepped off of the sidewalk and started to walk toward the stroller when a car horn blared in her face. She jumped back onto the sidewalk and wind whipped her hair aside as though a car had sped past. But nothing was to be seen aside from the pink stroller in the distance, unfragmented from the blackness surrounding it. She stepped back into the sinister blackness and bolted straight for the stroller. She was pushed and pulled and thrown around in the shadows. Both her mother and the stroller disappeared in the darkness. She stood and spun in circles uncertain of which direction to go. Did she want to find her mother, or save the abandoned baby? Even if she did choose, which way did she need to go? She picked a general direction and ran.

The sound of a laughing baby made her stop and turn around. As though standing under the light of a streetlamp, she saw a woman sitting on a park bench holding a pink bundle. The stroller sat idle to the side of the bench. The woman hummed a soft lullaby, her voice pitching up and down among various octaves. It wasn't the woman's strange appearance that drew Isabella in. It was the song the woman sang, mysterious and haunting. It sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she was uncertain from where she had heard it from. Her mother never sang to her, but her grandmother used to sing to all of them at night before tucking them in and kissing them gently on the forehead, but she didn't remember her ever singing this one to her. The notes were too jumpy to be something her grandmother's vocal chords could handle, but the rhythm seemed to stand out in her mind. Maybe if the woman added words to accompany the melody.  
She cautiously started to walk toward the humming woman, her voice entrancing her. She felt even if she wanted, she couldn't pull away from the sound. It seeped into her bones, blocked out her thinking, and sucked her in. She was a few feet away when she noticed her mom sitting beside the woman, cooing over the pink bundle. A small hand reached up and wrapped itself around her mother's pinky finger. Her eyes lit up and she went berserk with laughter, giggling like a schoolgirl. Isabella walked around the other side of the woman and stared into the bundle. Bright blue eyes framed by thin strands of curly blonde hair blinked back at her. The little girl released Isabella's mom's finger and put her arms up to her. The baby giggled and stretched for Isabella to hold her, but she jumped back, shaking her head. Something about the baby just didn't seem right, but she couldn't help but be pulled to her, like there's some strange connection between the two of them. She turned to leave, but right as she's about to depart from the circle of light and enter the darkness, the woman began to sing again, and she is forced to turn around.

The woman's head lifted from gazing at the baby and smiled at Isabella, still singing to her, but with words this time. An eerie smile stretched across her face as the chorus passed through her lips. Slowly, her teeth began to separate and sharpen to a dangerous point. Her jaw opened five more inches and her teeth lengthened out to fill the gap. Her eyes thinned and slanted in, the pupil's becoming vertical daggers, like a cat's. Still singing, she held the baby to her face. The infant's blonde hair has turned to stringy grey strands and her bright blue eyes have turned crimson and sunk in to empty sockets. Her plush, rosy cheeks sag and suck in to frame her cheek bones. Isabella's mom clapped her hands and giggled as though she saw none of what was happening. She even tried to pinch the baby's cheek, pulling the sagging skin from under her cheek bone and stretching it out 5 inches until the baby turned her head and bit her mother's hand. Her teeth grew long and sharp like the singing woman's and seeped into her mother's hand, sticking through on both sides.

"Silly baby," her mother giggled, pulling her bleeding hand away.

Isabella tried to pull her eyes away from the scene, but they focused back on the singing woman, her teeth gleaming with a yellow liquid that seeped from her gums and glistened as it dropped onto her black dress, burning holes that looked as though the dress has been set on fire. Her lips peeled back and her mouth stretched open another seven inches. A fowl screech vibrated from the woman's throat and green bile squirted out to cover the baby's sunk-in face. Her mouth enclosed the baby's head, her teeth seeping into her neck and penetrating through the sides like her child's had on Isabella's mother's hand. The baby's muffled laughter scraped against the sound of the woman's growl. Her head shook from side to side, ripping the flesh of the infant's neck, and tore her head off. She gulped down the head, swallowing it whole. A long, pointed tongue penetrated between the teeth and licked the blood from her upper lip, the entire time still humming that mystical lullaby.

Without moving, Isabella's feet began sliding across the ground toward the woman. She picked up her foot to run away, but merely fell to her back. She struggled for a breath, clawing at her chest and turning onto her stomach. She dug her short nails into the ground and tried to drag herself away, but continued to be pulled toward the singing woman who remained sitting on the bench next to her laughing mother. Thunder cracked and lightning flared through the sky above her. The hair on Isabella's arms began sticking up, and only ten feet away from her lightning struck the ground. The thunderous boom vibrated her skull and cracked her eardrums. She released the ground and clung to her ears, now ringing with a sense of urgency. A sticky liquid oozed from her ears, and she doesn't have to look at it to know it's blood. Above the ringing, she heard a chorus of her name. She picked her head up to see a riot of women with daggers for teeth holding newborn corpses stumbling her way. Their heads were tilted to the side, many of them with either white foam or a yellow liquid pouring from their mouths. Her name rang in her ears, pierced the drums. They sounded angry, hungry for blood. She gave up on trying to crawl away. There's no escape for her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a happy place, but those monsters screaming her name are all she could see. Just as one of the women is enlarging her mouth to bite her head off, she wakes.

The tears poured down her face and soaked her pillow. No light penetrated through her pink curtains, unwillingly bought and hung by her mother. If it were up to her, they'd be black, so she could always hide in the darkness she loves so much. The darkness that wraps itself around her and tries to protect her. The only thing she can always count on to be there for her. The only thing she can look forward to every time she wakes up in the morning. She stares at the wall, tears streaming down her face, thinking about her most recent dream. _Why am I forced to see the people I love most die?_ she thinks to herself. Her mother was so oblivious to the pain. She's always oblivious. To everything about Isabella. Her anger. Her pain. Her suffering. But then again, even if she did notice, what could she do about it? She wouldn't even if there was. She was unreliable. Uncaring. Just like everyone else in her life. She silently sobbed onto her pillow, not wanting for her father or mother to be aware of the pain she was in. They didn't deserve to see her cry. Not the tears the caused her. Not the tears they want to see fall from her eyes. They don't deserve anything from her.

"What the hell is wrong with that stupid fucking child? Can't she do anything right?" she heard her father screaming in the hallway.

She got up and locked her door, hoping he was too intoxicated to demand her to open it. She had been asleep for five hours, so she couldn't imagine what he was going to bitch at her for. She crawled back onto her bed and stared at the pictures she'd hung on her wall, her arms crossed behind her bed as an extra pillow. Some were of her and her brother, some of drawings either she or a friend had made, but most were post cards her brother had sent from overseas. He was deported to Iraq a little over two years ago. She'd only seen him three times since. She was very close to him, having been the only person around the house to ever acknowledge her. We were each other's true first friends, and we never really talked until about fourth grade.

Her father started banging on the door, "Open this damn door!"

She pretended momentarily to be asleep until she heard a crack on the other side of the door and light flickered into her room. She quickly scrambled out of bed and put her shoes on. Just as she was getting ready to crawl through her window, her door cracked again and crashed to the ground. He father stood, enraged, in the doorway.

"Where do you think you're going? Get your ass back in here and put the garbage where I told you to put it the first fucking time!"

She jumped and pulled herself through the window, but not faster than he could stumble across her room. He caught her around her right ankle and tried to yank her back through the window. She put her left foot against the outside of the window pane, shook her foot free and kicked him in the face. He released his grip, but she went flying to the ground. Although her breath came in short gasps, she forced herself to run. Sure he was too drunk to follow, she ran straight for her swings. Her legs pushed herself up the hill and toppled on top of Sparrow.

_Here, in the arms of her loving darkness, she let the tears stream down her face._

She cried for her mother who never paid attention. She cried for her father, who was always a drunken asshole. She cried for a friend, lost and buried beneath her arms. She cried for the free spirit which is now grounded for eternity. She cried for all the years of being alone, now restored to their previous engagement. But most of all, she cried for herself.

"I love you too," I hear from the hallway.

I wipe my eyes and turn to the doorway and see my mother leaning against the doorframe, her cheeks wet from crying. So she _was_ in the living room earlier. She walks across my room, sits on my bed, and I fall onto her, crying harder than before. Drool spills from the corner of my mouth and instantly soaks the skirt of her nightgown. She pets my head and brushes through my hair with her fingers as I cry onto her lap. She shushes me and tells me everything will be okay, and I'm grateful for a mother who knows me, understands me, and, overall, loves me. This, of course, makes me cry harder. For being grateful. For having something I prayed every night for my friend to have. Love. Hope. And just a sense of peace at least _somewhere_ in her life. She had very few people who gave her these things, and as the years went by, they all slowly began to fade away, blending into the surroundings she longed to stay away from. I was her last hope, and I vanished the night I rejected her phone calls. She called four times before I finally answered, and I didn't even give her time to speak. I simply told her I was busy with friends and hung up. She must have thought she wasn't my friend anymore. She must have thought I was leaving her for this group of snobbish people who could give me a name. She thought right. Until I heard what had happened to her, I had pushed every thought about her out of my mind. Any thought of texting her, hanging out with her, calling her my friend anymore. I had tried so hard to fit in with 'those' people that I actually become one of them.

_I'm sorry for disappointing you, Isabella._


	5. Chapter 3 Blackberry Pie

**Chapter 3 ~ Blackberry Pie**

I burrow myself deeper into my mom's shoulders, searching for the darkness Isabella so tenderly caressed. I understand, now, how she felt. Always so alone. Never having a person to comfort her. Most of her time was spent alone in the woods on her swing where she'd spend countless hours listening to the chain squeak as she pumped her legs back and forth. I wonder what a person could think about for such long periods of time, but then I answer my own question. She was always dealing with someone else's problems whether they were contemplating suicide, having a relationship issue, or dealing with bad memories from the past, she was always the person everyone would turn to. She would never turn down a friend who sought her advice, no matter what else she was dealing with. Most of her stress came from the pressure of three or four people texting her at the same time about something of 'major importance' in their life. Alone on the swings where it's quiet and peaceful is the only place she can properly think a way out for her struggling companions.

_It's also the only place she could ever just drown out the world and be with herself._

"I wonder how she felt," I say out loud, seeking advice from the only other person I trust in this hating world.

"What do you mean?"

I shift myself away from her and lean against my hand with my elbow propped on the bed, thinking of how exactly I want to word my next sentence. I trust my mom more than anyone in the world, but some things I simply prefer to keep personal. I'm not sure if I want to tell her more about Isabella than she already knows. She's not a judgmental person, and she never fails to make me feel better, but does she deserve to know the person I know? Would Isabella want me to tell her?

"It's just… she didn't have anyone like I do."

"I know, Sweetheart. I know."

But she doesn't know. She doesn't know anything. And at this moment, I'm so mad with her ignorance that I almost yell at her to get out of my room, but I don't want her to go. I don't want her to never come back. I don't want to feel alone anymore. But I'm still so angry at her, I have to say something.

"What do you know?" I try to say it as unthreateningly as I can, but even I can hear the venom in my voice.

"I don't understand," she says questioningly.

"You act like you know who she was. You act like you can understand my pain. She was my friend! You know what? You're right. How could you _possibly_ understand?"

Without a second's hesitation I free myself from under her arms and fling myself at the door. I push off the doorframe and skip down the steps, bounding through the kitchen door. I take off across the yard and disappear into the trees. Although I'm blinded by tears, my feet know the trail well enough, and they carry me around the tall pines and seat me in the river. The icy chill of the slow current sends a shiver up my spine and brings me back to reality. I just yelled at my mother. I just ran away from home. I just stepped into a freezing river. I drag myself back to the bank and haul myself up next to the tree I was leaning against earlier in the day. The rough bark presses into my back through the thin black tank-top I've been wearing for three days. I suddenly realize how nasty I feel. I've swam in the river every day, not finding it a necessity to take the time to properly wash myself as long as I've been rinsed off, but now the idea of the warm water beating against my back puts me in a trance that leads me back home.

It's a thirty minute walk from the house to my spot at the river, but I force myself to walk slower than normal. I don't want to go home yet, but I have to. I can't live in the forest, and whether I like it or not, I do have a family I have to care for. It's not that I look after anyone, but they'll get worried about me. Unlike Isabella's family. I bet her mom doesn't even think anything of her missing; I _know_ her dad doesn't. Why would he? What, no one to get him a beer now? Poor baby.

I stop and slam my fist into the closest tree. A chunk of bark breaks away, some of it falls to the ground, some of it lodges itself in my knuckles. I pick the pieces out with the tips of my fingernails and flick them to the ground as I walk along. I swipe the blood onto the butt of my jeans and look at it again. More blood bubbles to the surface, and I lick it off. The corner of my lip twitches into a smirk. Isabella used to say she could tell who a person was by the taste of their blood. She had a thing for licking the blood from a small scrape. I've always thought it was weird. Your own blood is one thing, but everybody else's?

_She dealt with everyone else's problems, why not have their blood too?_

One time I was mad at a teacher for giving me a low B on a test when she hadn't taught the class anything. Everyone had made poor grades -either a B or C- because she stood in the hallway the entire year flirting with the guy teacher across the hall. I know, I know. How can a B be a bad grade? Well, being in all honors classes, you strive to make no less than an A on everything you do, whether it is the final grade you make in the class or the homework you had to do the previous night. Thinking about it now, this is probably the reason Isabella chose to back out of the advanced classes. Sure, she'd miss the challenge and class with her friends, but she couldn't handle not passing. Math was really her only weak area, but that's because she had the same teacher I did, even though we weren't in the same class. She was never taught anything. But she had a lot on her mind this year, with it being the first year of high school, a lot of people had changed, some adapting to the new surroundings better than others, adding to the drama she was forced to sort out.

I grabbed my binder from my locker and slammed the door shut. It snagged against my elbow, thus making me more furious. Isabella stood over me with a questioning expression. I pushed myself up and hugged her, Isabella returning to her normal level below my shoulders. When she pulled away, her hand swiped against the new cut, lazily oozing a drop of blood down my arm. She caught it on the tip of her finger and looked at it through the light in the window. The way she gazed at the glistening liquid reminded me of a scientist examining a new species from afar, interested in the ways of the beast, but hungry for the its knowledge. She licked the blood off her finger, her eyes sparkling with their own light, shaded from the bright sun shining through the window. She closed her eyes and savored the taste.

"Mmmmmmmm. Iron," she says to me with that childish grin her height and fragile size aid in accomplishing.

I pluck the final splinter, let it fall to the ground, and slump against a tree where I can see the back door to my house through the brush. I'm not ready to go home yet. I've been gone for at least two hours, so I know my mom has to be worried, gone back to sitting in her chair in the dark corner, but I can't bring myself to stand up and walk. I just sit there and stare. The darkness surrounds me, tries to take away my life. I'm drawn into the world around me. The low hum of the crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance, the swoosh of a passing car on the street in front of the house. Dawn is breaking before I manage to pull myself inside the house. The soft pink radiating from behind the top of the house lures me in.

I start my shower in my clothes, washing them while they're on my body, and then hang them over the bar that holds the curtain up. After that, I just stand under the scalding hot water until it turns to ice. I scrub my hair with my nails, massaging my scalp at the same time, and then rinse the bubbles from my long brown hair. I put the wet clothes back on, the warmth from the water warming my body back up. I don't bother putting on dry clothes because I intend on going for a swim as soon as I eat breakfast. I look at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth, the white foam squeezing from the corner of my mouth reminding me of a rabid animal. I bare my teeth, perfectly straight although I've never wore braces or a retainer. I've always hated the length of my forehead and how my chin sticks out on my oval face, but my worst feature is my large nose. I had relatively long eyelashes until I cut them accidentally, but with a little mascara, they still stand out and make my dainty, brown eyes the first thing you notice about me. When I wear makeup and straighten my naturally straight hair, I'd actually consider myself to be a sight for sore eyes, but other than that, all I have going for me is my curvy body. My breasts are about average size and I'd have a thin waist if I did some crunches, but it's my hips and my butt that are eye catching. I don't like them, but most people complement me on my hips, buns, and thighs, which are all overly proportionate with the rest of my body. I genuinely accept their praise, but secretly loathe my body.

This makes me think of Isabella and her small stature. She's about a head shorter than me, and I measure five feet two inches. Along with her short height, she has a rather small figure. When people say she's a twig, they're not joking. You can wrap your hands around her waist and the tips of your fingers almost touch. Along with that, she has the average butt muscle-or else you could argue that she has no butt- and the boob-fairy ran out of magical dust before she got to Isabella. This, of course, has been a long standing joke between us and a small circle of friends. It is one of the many inside jokes we share. Along with her fragile figure is a face that can either resemble that of a small child or the devil himself. Her small face and puffy cheeks have always amused me. When she smiles, it reminds me of what squirrels look like in one of those old cartoons after they shove the two acorns into their mouths. It's a pretty smile. Although I'm not sure what her teeth looked like before she got braces, they're nearly straight now. Not as straight as mine, but I received my grandmother's chompers. Along with those pretty teeth are the most beautiful green eyes, laced with blonde eyelashes. I hate the word dirty-blonde because it makes me think of a Barbie doll that got dropped in a puddle of mud, but that's the color of her hair. This dirty-blonde hair hangs just below her ears whenever her mom first cuts it-usually with a butcher knife instead of the normal pair of scissors- but I like it where it was when I last saw her, just touching her shoulders. It's easy to pull back into a cute pony tail -or pig tails on the off-chance she's in the mood for a good laugh- and I can style it up if the occasion calls for it. This year, I convinced her to move where her hair parts from the center of her head to the side so she looked more grown up, but she'll never lose her childish essence. If she did, I don't think she'd be able to stand her life at home. But then again, I guess that's why she ran away.

I spit the toothpaste into the sink and turn the water on to wash it down the drain. I cup my hands under the faucet and fill them with water, rinsing my mouth out a few times. I can't stand the taste or feel of toothpaste left over in my mouth. I bush my hair out and French braid it, starting where I'd put a pony tail so my bangs stay out and my hair's slicked back. There's a faint smell of cinnamon that waifs into the bathroom that makes my mouth water and drags me downstairs into the kitchen. The moment I sit at the table, two cinnamon rolls drizzled with white icing are set in front of me and I have to control myself not to dig in. The smell is so appetizing, but I have to wait for my orange juice and my mother to sit and pray before I'm allowed to touch even the rim of my plate.

Mom seems to take hours making the plates and setting the table for everyone as they slowly weed in, but not even the delectable smell of cinnamon rolls can coax my brother from his video game lair, so I distract myself by retrieving him. Maybe there is an airtight seal separating his room from the house, but the minute the door opens, his head pops around at me and the one word question shoots out of his mouth.

"Cinnabon?"

He leaves the lobby he's in and abandons COD: MW3 for breakfast. When I get back in my seat, Mom is ready for our prayer. I hold Josh's hand in my left and my mom's hand in my right as I stare down the swirly goodness in front of me. Before I realize what's happening, Mom is saying Amen and I'm choking down my cinnamon roll like a gluttonous pig. I empty my glass of orange juice in one gulp, thank my mom for breakfast, kiss her on the cheek, and dash out the kitchen door. In twenty minutes I'm wading into the cool water of the river in my wet clothes. I've been doing this for five days, but I'm still wondering why I've yet to get sick. I long to stay in bed, asleep all day. It's an escape from the world. I don't have to sit around thinking about Isabella all day. I don't have to do anything. I can watch TV and eat as much of my mom's homemade chicken noodle soup as I want when I'm awake. When I'm not, I'll either be in a slump of nothingness, or dreaming happily of something crazy. I don't dream often, but when I do, my dreams are really strange.

Aside from the occasional nightmare about being thrown into trees, I usually dream of things involving my friends and family taking place in odd events. The other night I had a dream that my father was taking my brother somewhere on a train. They had a cart-the caboose- to themselves with all their bags piled up in the corners, and they were setting out their sleeping bags when I noticed something that jabbed me in the stomach like a knife.

"Where do I put my stuff?" I ask to no one in particular.

My dad and brother exchanged a brief look that I couldn't see due to the shade from the setting sun on the other side of the cart. Josh lowered his head and continued unfolding his sleeping bag and setting out his luggage. I stood there with my arms folded, waiting for someone to answer my question. Dad glanced up at me a few times, but without a reply, so I repeated myself.

"I don't see any room for anything of mine."

"We didn't make any," Josh mumbled, barely audible.

"We didn't plan on you coming, Sweetheart," Dad stood up and walked toward me with outstretched arms.

I pushed away his hug and stared at them both in disbelief. Not take me? Why wouldn't they take me? Maybe they just figured I didn't want to go. But my suitcase was outside the train. I jumped out of the cart and walked to pick up my suitcase, but Josh slapped my hand away and told me to leave his stuff alone. _His _stuff?I watched as he hopped back onto the train and put my suitcase with the rest of his belongings. They used my suitcase. They had no intentions of me going anywhere with them.

A loud whistle sounded and a puff of smoke left the stalk of the train. The wheels started rolling and the train was leaving me. I stared at the cart as it pulled farther and farther away from me. Then I ran. I screamed at the train to stop, to let me on, but it gradually picked up speed and I couldn't keep up. Josh and my dad watched me fade in the distance as they were pulled farther and farther away. I didn't know where they were going or why they weren't taking me, but I wanted to be on that train so bad. Even after the train was far gone and I couldn't feel the rattling of the tracks anymore, I still ran. There was a cramp in my side that felt as though my ribs were curling into a vital organ, and it forced me to stop.

I bent over, holding myself up by putting my hands on my knees. _How could they leave me?_ I stared at the tracks, descending into nothingness and trees in the distance, and tell myself how pretty this scene was, wishing I had a camera. The sun had almost completed its cycle through the sky, leaving an orange glow over everything. Thin splotches of light speckled the tracks, making the rail ties sparkle. I sat down in the middle of the tracks and waited for my father and brother to come back for me.

_I understand Isabella's feeling of being unwanted and abandoned._

There's a patch of wild rose bushes that grows not far from the river. Every day after my dip in the river, I go to the clearing and pick a rose. Eventually there won't be any more for me to pick, but there's so many bushes covered with these brilliant red flowers that I can't help myself. They were her favorite flower. Her grandmother had a small garden that had roses in it. She once told me it was like a rainbow in her back yard. She had every color of rose from a soft pink to a sorrowful blue. Isabella and her grandmother would sit on an old porch swing hung up in the back yard and look at the beautiful flowers while they sang songs from a hymnal given to her by her church. Isabella's favorite was Angel Band.

"My latest sun is sinking fast; my race is nearly run. My strongest trials now are past; my triumph has begun," her grandmother would sing the melody so beautifully even the birds would stop to listen.

Isabella doesn't like to sing. Maybe it's because it's something she only enjoys doing with her grandmother. Maybe it's because she doesn't think she has a pretty singing voice. Maybe it's because she wasn't happy enough to sing anywhere else. I've always wanted to hear her sing. Sure, she'll mouth the words to Holiday by Green Day, but I've never heard her actually sing from her core, with emotion and feeling. Maybe she sings more now that she's away from everything that was dragging her down. Maybe she can actually be happy.

After hours of merrily singing the church songs, Isabella and her grandmother would pick blackberries, strawberries, and raspberries from her garden and go inside to bake a pie. Isabella would stand on a stepping stool and help her grandma roll out the dough to cover the base of the pan and the top of the pie with. After the blackberries had been mixed with sugar, flour, and blackberry jam and poured into the pan, Isabella was allowed to lick the wooden spoon clean. While Isabella waited for the pie to finish, she'd play in the rolling fields behind her grandmother's house with her cousins. The way they played was like watching farmhouse kids in an old movie. They'd leapfrog through the tall grass, swing from a rope they'd tied to a tree into a small pond the cows drank from, and chase each other in circles until her grandmother's voice rang out across the fields to come in for dinner.

They'd scurry into the bathroom to wash their hands, and scramble to their chairs at the table, eager to finish dinner for some pie. Blackberry was Isabella's favorite, so she made sure to eat all of the food on her plate. Every other day her grandma would cook some kind of green vegetable-beans usually- then macaroni and chicken nuggets. The adult table always gossiped about the family, people they knew, and the latest buzz. After all, that is what girls like to do-her aunt, her mom, and her grandma. All of the kids would eat at the table unless it was Sunday, then they ate in front of the TV and watched cartoons.

After everyone had finished their dinner and the table had been cleared, Isabella's grandma would cut everyone a slice of blackberry pie. There was never an extra piece for anyone to fight over because she cut it so perfectly, evenly distributing the same size to everyone. They'd all cheerfully eat their pie then run outside to play tag in the backyard until dusk. They'd all shower and brush their teeth, and then her grandmother would tuck everyone in and sing them one last song before bed. She'd kiss everyone on the forehead and say good night before turning out the lights and closing the door.

_Her grandmother died of kidney failure two years ago on New Year's Eve._

Today I pick two roses, one for Isabella and one for her grandmother. I take them home and clip the stems at an angle and put them in a glass half filled with water and set it on the table beside my bed. I open the curtains above my bed, making sure the light is shining through onto the glass, and take out my sketch pad and colored pencils a friend gave me for my birthday. My mom appears in my doorway as I start to color the two roses, one a brilliant shade of red, the other an innocent white. She crosses the room and sits down on the bed beside me, staring at the picture blossoming from the page.

"It's beautiful," she says after a while.

A soft thank you is all I can muster after last night's conversation. We sit for a moment more in silence before she brushes a stray strand of hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear.

"You're right. I don't understand. But I won't unless you tell me."

She's opening the conversation to talk about last night. And for me to express my feelings to her, but I don't want to. I don't say anything, my silence meaning no. She doesn't say anything until after I've finished my drawing. I sign Isabella's name across the bottom right corner in an alternate alphabet I made up in eighth grade and tear it from the sketchbook. I find tape in the top drawer, curl it around itself, and stick it to the back of the paper.

"Where are you going to put it?" my mom asks.

"I'm not quite sure. Where do you think I should put it?"

"Above your bed, so it's the first thing anyone sees when they walk into your room," she says with a smile.

I hand the picture to her and she smoothes it against the wall above my bed. The color stands out against my white walls, empty of any other decorations aside from my pink curtains. I look back at my mom, staring happily at the two roses in the glass. I make a mental note to draw her a purple rose-her favorite.

"Mom, can you make blackberry pie?"

"I have to go to the store and get some blackberries, but yes. Why?"

"Can you show me how to make one?"

She smiles and grabs my hand, "I certainly can."

_I'm making it for you, Isabella._

_Enjoy. _


	6. Chapter 4 Xavier

**Chapter 4~ Xavier**

I lie under the covers facing the wall, staring out the window at the foot of my bed. The shadow of a tree lazily being shook by a breeze outside in the night dances around my walls. The tree leaps into my room, does a graceful twirl around the space, and lands on pointed toes before fading into the background, unnoticed by most. I've always wanted to be a ballerina, to wear the over-poofed pink tutu and leotard and so elegantly twist and turn and spring into the air around a stage, bowing before an applauding audience on my tippy toes, and striding behind the red curtain. Many times I've watched dancing reality shows on television and gone back to my room to imitate the moves so expertly portrayed on the screen, but failed by my own body. I'd probably be in dance classes if I asked for them, but no matter how bad I want to dance, I can't afford to add another activity to my agenda. Well, I used to not to anyway. Between band and tennis, I had no life. Would I say I have a life now? Yes.

_Between sleeping and spending my days at the river, I have no life._

I pull my knees up to my chest and tuck the blanket under my feet, wondering what Isabella always wanted but never achieved. She never complained about anything aside from her family and school, and I never heard her ask for much. Honestly, I have no clue what she wanted to do. Writing was her passion, but I didn't see her express an interest for anything else. Maybe if I think hard enough, I can piece together hints she'd drop about stuff. It's not like me to not know about her. About Isabella. I mean, I know there was a lot that I didn't know about her, but something this personal is something that I should be able to answer without a moment's hesitation. This just goes to show how much I paid attention toward the end.

The thought of ignorance brings tears to my eyes. I try to push them away, but they won't seem to leave. It's going to be a sleepless night. Once I start crying about Isabella, there's nothing that can calm me down. I cry for hours and hours on end, thinking about all the good times we shared, all the shit she went through, and everything I didn't do for her or wasn't able to be there for. Usually the massive headaches are the only thing that can pull me out of my hysteria, but lately, I've been fighting against those as well. I know it's pointless to lie in my bed any longer. I drag myself out from under the warm comforter, push my feet into my sneakers, and pull myself down the stairs in the hallway. I know Mom won't worry about me if she's see's my room is empty in the morning; she knows where I am when I disappear.

Goose bumps line along my arms as the chill of the night air weaves its way into the threads of my jacket. My feet carry me along the all too familiar trail and sit me against the trunk of my tree by the river. There's a routine my body knows I do when I make it to the river, and in tears or not, it refuses to not follow procedure. I turn against the trunk and kick my sneakers off, plunging my feet into the water. I twirl my toes around the surface until the entirety of my feet go numb from the cold, then I pull my shirt and shorts off and dive into the river. The cold current sends a shiver up my spine that tingles along nerves down my arms and legs out to the tips of my fingers and toes. I slosh around on the surface for a while before making my way across the river to sit on the edge of a half submerged boulder. Water splashes against my chest and neck, my head is the only thing I keep out of the water. I lean it back against the rock and stare at the stars through a clearing in the canopy. There are a select few spots along the bank where there's a break between the leaves in the trees that blanket the river; I just happened to stumble upon this one when I was swimming a few weeks ago. I normally don't go all the way across the river. If I want to get to the other bank, I go across a log bridge I made out of fallen trees. You have no idea how hard it was for me to make that bridge. It helped that a large tree had already fallen out onto the river. I used it as a base to move the other ones across on. Of course, I don't have the strength to move a giant tree by myself, so I used a saw in the shed at my house to cut down a bunch of small ones that I dragged to the river. I asked my mom if she would buy me some rope so I could finish a project I was working on in the woods and, after hours of trying to convince her that I wasn't suicidal and didn't need a therapist, we went to Lowe's and got the thickest rope we could find.

I'm proud of that bridge. It's something I did all by myself, and for a time, it helped keep things off my mind. But one day I was so pissed off that all I wanted to do was get to my field of roses. I didn't want to walk all the way down to where I had built the bridge, cross, and have to walk all the way back. Not when the field was right across from where I normally sit. So I jumped in and swam across to this boulder, hoping to get my footing on it and just pull myself out. That wouldn't have been a problem on any other day, but of course, there had to be a strong current today. It had stormed awful the past three days, so the excess water was in a hurry to get down to the valley. I eventually gave up and just leaned back against the rock as I do now and looked up into the sky. To this day, I have never seen a more brilliant shade of blue in the sky. I sat there for about an hour giggling to myself about all the shapes I saw in the clouds that so lazily drifted by. By then my rage was gone and the river had considerably slowed down, so I made my way back across the river and pulled myself up. The roses could wait. I sat against my tree until I was dry, then I walked a while along the bank and crossed across the bridge I built._ "All by myself,"_ I think to myself every time I cross it.

I like the sky better at night. It doesn't look like it does during the day: a plain blue, a combination of fluffy whites, or a mucky gray-green color that pours crystal tears. At night, if it's clear, the sky sparkles at you. When it's cloudy, it's like the sky is sleepy, opening its eyes every now and then to remind you that it's still there. But when it rains at night, it's like little fairies giving you wet kisses. You can't see where they are or know where you're going to be kissed next, but it's a magical mystery. So much happens under the moon and stars that doesn't happen under the sun. The world transforms into this mystical wonderland that I long to explore. I don't see it like Isabella did. It belongs to both of us as an escape and a comfort, but I learn now that it's because I find peace in its beauty, not its lack of constant negativity. I enjoy the night because it's another flawless work of art composed in the hands of a genius.

_She loved the night because it wouldn't scream at her._

The night is clear tonight, and I try to make out different constellations in its twinkling eyes. I've spent so much time under these stars, but I haven't taken the time to try to learn their pictures. I'll save that for another day, for right now, I can't feel a single part of my body. I swim back across the river and lean against my tree for a little bit, allowing my body to dry off a little. It won't be quick in this chilly air, but I took my clothes off so they'd keep me warm, not to be wet anyway. After a while, I pull my clothes back on and make my way along the bank to my bridge. By the time I'm crossing the bridge pink streaks have begun shooting across the sky. I sit on the middle of the bridge and wait until I can see the tip of the sun peaking over the trees in the distance. I follow the path of sunshine through the trees and wind up at my field of roses. My beautiful roses.

I stop at the first bush I come across and pick one of the brilliant red flowers from it. Making sure I snapped it above the thorns, I push my hair back and place it on my ear. My mom showed me how to do this when I was little and we were working in her garden. She'd snip a small flower from one of her biggest bushes, from the ones she could afford to steal from, and place it behind my ear. Then, I'd do the same to her. We looked so beautiful together. I remind myself to pick one for her before I leave today. The tall grass tickles the backs of my calves as I walk across the field, brushing my fingertips across the tops of the tall dandelions growing every here and there. There's a small spot in the center of the field where I've bent the grass. Every evening I lie there and stare at the passing clouds, or the clear blue sky. Lately I've been bringing a blanket and a book to read, but sometimes that reminds me too much of Isabella, and I expect a sparrow to fly down and land in front of me.

Today as I lie on my bent grass, I hear an odd shuffling coming from the far side of the clearing. It's not the normal rustle from a bunny or a deer; it sounds robotic and like something is struggling. When I sit up, there's a boy in cutoff denim shorts struggling to get through a rose bush. There are bloody scratches across his bare chest and his jeans have been ripped in multiple spots. He must have been caught in the brambles outside the field. I used to struggle through those when I first found the place. I think about calling out to the boy or offering him my aide, but his loud curses and distressed grunts seem to be amusing me, so I just sit there and watch.

When he finally breaks free from the claws of the rose bush, he falls into the field, slamming his face into the dirt. I struggle to hold my laughter in at the entertainment of his temper. He pushes himself up and angrily slaps the dirt from his face, further enraging himself at the pain he is self inflicting. I cannot get a good glimpse of him from this far away, but up close, he's probably pretty good looking. He has a fit figure and shaggy dirty-blond hair hiding part of his face. When he flips it out of his eyes, it sends a rush of excitement through my body. I'm instantly repulsed by my reaction to his hair-flip. It's just a hair-flip; I mean seriously. I don't even know what he looks like, let alone who he is. But I continue to watch him, intrigued in his behavior. He's calmed down considerably now and has seated himself near one of the bushes. His fingertips examine the petals of one of the roses, caressing the entirety of the flower shortly after. This brings an unexpected smile to my face. He enjoys nature. That's a plus. But then he grips the flower and pulls it from the bush. The sends a wave of rage through my body and I shoot up from the ground so fast I almost fall over.

"Hey!" I scream out at the top of my lungs.

Startled, he turns to me, dropping the rose. Looking directly at me, I get a better sight of his face: soft features and stunning green eyes. Oddly, a smile spreads across his face, and I can't help but no longer be angry. His smile is just so mesmerizing, and it makes me feel happy inside. He picks up the flower and begins to walk toward me. I've suddenly forgotten what I wanted to yell at him, but I can't force myself to say _anything_. When he reaches me, he stretches out his hand, with the rose in his palm.

"A beautiful rose for a beautiful lady?" there's that wicked smile again.

I clear my throat and force myself to speak, but it comes out squeaky and less forceful than I expect it to be, "That's my rose anyway, and you shouldn't be here picking them."

His smile drops to a hard, slightly confused expression. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I come here every day and pick a rose for my mom. She likes them," he says as sternly as I wish I had spoken.

"Well this is _my_ field of roses, and I don't want you picking anymore of _my_ flowers."

"Oh, _really _now? And where, might I ask, is your name marking this property?"

"Well, I …," I stumble, because this land doesn't belong to me. It doesn't belong to anyone, but I never expected anyone else to come in and try to take it from me either.

"Well, you … What?" he says, making fun of me. "Can't think fast enough of your claim on this land? Because there isn't one? I know very well that the government owns this land and nobody else. Therefore, I _do_ believe I am allowed to pick _as many_ roses as I want," he smirks at me, sending a shiver down my arms.

"Well I was here first. I may not have a written document claiming this area, but I've been here longer than you."

"You think just because you've been sitting over there staring at me since I got here makes any difference to me? Listen, sweetheart, I'm not interested in playing games with you."

His enticing use of the nickname 'sweetheart' enrages me, but the fact that he knew I was here the entire time worries me. Had he been watching me for a while? Or had he simply seen me when he came crashing through the bushes? I go with the alternate because it soothes my mind.

"Now you just hold on a minute there. First of all, I'm _not_ your sweetheart. Secondly, I don't go around playing games with strangers. Now I don't care who you are or why you're here, but I'd appreciate it if you would go away and not come back, because believe it or not, I …"

"What's your name?" he interrupts me.

"Excuse me?"

"What is your name?" he stretches out each syllable like he's speaking to a foreigner.

"Who's asking?"

"This handsome stud," he grins, pointing to himself. I can't just _not_ respond to that grin, but I don't intend on giving up so easily.

"Well, hello, This Handsome Stud. I'm Hibiscus," I say, outstretching my hand.

Cautiously, he takes my hand in his and gives it a firm shake. The feeling of his soft hand gripping mine makes me want to leap with joy. He's so cute, and he has a wonderful sense of humor, but certainly that body doesn't have anything to do with my intense interest to get to know this person any better. Oh, that body. He isn't ripped, but he has a decent outline of his abs and his biceps bulge a little. He is defiantly in shape, to say the least. But then when you throw in those 'battle wounds' from the brambles and that pretty smile… well, I can't help myself. I decide I don't want him to go away. Instead, I decide to help him.

"You know, This Handsome Stud, there's an easier way to get in here than through those brambles. I could show you if you'd like."

"That wouldn't be such a bad idea… Hydrangea?" he falters trying to remember the flower name, but at least that means he knows his flowers. Kind of.

"Hibiscus," I smile at him. "C'mon. I come in over here."

I lead him across the field and show him the path I take that goes around the patch of brambles. He seems really relieved to have found a new way to get to the roses. I decide to take him along a separate path unmarked to an unknown eye, but well known to mine. I show him my bridge and tell him how I chopped down trees and tied them together myself. He's really impressed with it, and I can tell by the way he lifts his arms he wanted to put his arm around me. The idea makes me smile. I wouldn't half mind those muscles pulling me into a tight hug, his warmth surrounding me. I haven't been comforted like that in a long time. Well, aside from Mom holding me the other night, but that doesn't count. We're sitting in the middle of the bridge looking at a small school of fish swimming in the river when the wind steals the rose from my ear. I nearly fall off the logs trying to retrieve it, but This Handsome Stud grabs me by the arm and steadies me. I'm surprised when he pulls a red rose from his pocket. I glance back at the river, and my rose has already settled on top of the water. Then I realize this is the rose I yelled at him earlier for. I can feel the warmth flurry into my cheeks when he pushes my hair back and places the rose behind my ear.

I can't help but look deeply into his eyes. They're so beautiful, no words can describe them. This is when I notice he's looking as deeply into mine as I am his. My face flushes with heat, and I know I'm beat red. I lower my head and look into the river. I can see our reflections rippled on the water, two shaky figures perched atop a thick stack of logs. In the reflection, I see him lift his hand to scratch the back of his head, embarrassed I assume. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, so I look at him, expecting him to say something. His eyes fall away from mine, suddenly shy. Encouraged by his lost moment of bravery, I work up the nerve to ask him what his real name is, but he beats me to it.

"Hibiscuses are beautiful flowers, and it's a pretty name, but I don't think it's your real one, is it?"

"Haha, no. I wish, but no. I'm Prescilla," I say with a soft smile.

"Well, Prescilla, I'm Xavier," he says, sticking out his hand. I shake it without a moment's hesitation.

"Well, I need to get going. My mom'll start to worry if I'm gone all day," it's a lie, of course. I started thinking about Isabella, and I suddenly don't want Xavier around anymore.

"Yeah, I guess I best be going as well. Will I see you tomorrow, Hibiscus?" his offer to meet again comes as a surprise to me.

"Maybe," is all I say before I get up and leave him sitting on the bridge.

I look back once, just to see if he's still sitting there, and of course, he is. Our eyes meet and once again, I feel myself blush. I turn and hurry further into the trees, straying from my normal path as to not be seen by Xavier. About 100 feet from the bridge, I emerge back on the path to my tree by the river. When I get to the tree I instantly strip my shirt and shorts and dive in. I stay under water for as long as I can, staying close the bottom without my belly touching. I don't surface until I absolutely have to, and when I do, I sit on the edge of the boulder with my head leaning against the rock. Every now and then water splashed up into my nose, and eventually to water is too high for me to relax there anymore. I pull myself out of the water and walk through the trees until I see brambles. At this point, I turn left and follow the brambles around to an opening. It's not the same one that leads to the bridge, but this is one of the closest ones that hasn't grown over yet. I crawl through the small opening and place myself behind a bush so I could see out into the field without being seen.

I lie there until its starts to get dark, waiting for Xavier to come back into the field to pick more roses, but he never does. I don't know why I want to see him so badly; I don't even know him. It's not that he's good looking, or because I think I might like him, it's because I'm lonely. Sure, I'd rather be out here than stuck in my house, but that doesn't mean I like being alone all the time. But isn't that the whole point of coming out here? To get away from everyone. So why do I all of a sudden want this guy around?

_Because he reminds me of Isabella._

Since I would have to jump in the river to get across to my clothes anyway, I decide to walk up to the bridge and watch the sunset. I know I'm only in my bra and underwear, but Xavier is clearly not coming back. When I can't see the sun anymore, I dive into the water, using the rest of its remaining light to swim back to my spot along the bank. I pull myself out of the water and dry off beside my tree. When all of the light has faded from the sky and the moon and stars are my only light, I pull my clothes on and head home. I take my time, thinking about everything that happened today. There was a long period of time today when I didn't think about Isabella and when I didn't feel sad. There was a time when I actually smiled and laughed and felt like the old me. It may have only been for about six or seven hours, but it felt great to feel alive again. It felt great to feel like she was around again.

_It felt great not to feel guilty again._

When I get home, I go to Mom sitting in her chair in the corner and I sit on her lap. She's asleep, so it startles her at first, but she openly accepts the affection. After spending so much time with Xavier today, I just want to be held and to cuddle with someone. I want someone to show me love and to look at me like they care the way he did. I have no idea who he is, but he made me feel special. He made me feel wanted. He made me feel normal. And normal is hard for me to achieve now. With everything I love gone, not much is normal for me. But then again, what would you describe as normal?

After an hour of rocking back and forth in her lap like a five-year-old, I kiss her on the cheek and drag myself up the stairs to my bedroom. I change into my pajamas and lie on my bed until my mom comes upstairs to tuck me in. She smoothes out the comforter on top of me and sings me a lullaby, then she kisses me on the forehead and leave the room. She stands in the doorway for a while and we both just stare at each other. She looks to old now. I think she's been really worried about me lately. I've been spending longer and longer in the woods every day without checking in, and every time I come home, it's like the blood starts flowing to her face again. I smile at her, and she smiles back.

"Thank you for being my mommy. I love you."

"I love you too, baby," she crosses the room and gives me one last kiss on the forehead before I roll over and go to sleep.

Tonight I have a different dream. I'm still in the forest, but now I'm part of it. I'm a leaf that's just fallen from the tree I always lean against. The wind has shaken me from the tree and I've floated down to settle on top of the river. I'm floating downstream on the lazy current, looking up at the clear blue sky. A bird swoops down and snags a fish from the water, picking me up on its back. As I begin to float back down, the wind catches me and pushes me around again. I soar high above the trees, twisting and twirling and tumbling in the air. For a moment I think of myself as that ballerina I long to be, but then the wind stops, and gravity forces me back to the ground. Back to reality. I'm about to land on my patch of bent grass when the wind kicks up again.

It twirls me around the field, allowing me to examine all of my rose bushes, but then I see this boy in denim shorts and a grey jacket with shaggy blonde hair. He smiles at me and throws a rose at me. Suddenly I become the rose, spinning through the air. The wind boomerangs me back toward the boy. His green eyes smile up at me and then turn back to the rose bushes to pluck a handful of roses. When he turns around again, he throws them all into the air, and suddenly I'm a dozen roses, dancing in the sky. It's a ballet of red roses, spinning and leaping a being carried by the wind. I can feel every movement all at the same time: one rose spinning round and round, and other rose falling to its left, another jumping into the air. It's such a rush of excitement that I can't help but laugh when we all finally fall to the ground. Then the boy is plucking more roses and throwing them up, and it starts all over again.

I'm laughing and singing and smiling and enjoying myself, until I fall to the ground again. When I turn back to the boy, he's knelt down, picking more roses. But when he turns around, it's not him. His green eyes have turned a grey-blue, his hair has gotten longer and brighter, he's shrunk a good six inches, and he is no longer a he. It's her. Isabella. She's back, to haunt my dreams. The roses she holds are not red, they are white, splattered with the blood dripping from her mouth. She licks her lips and smiles at me.

"Iron," she says. "C'mon. If you won't come willingly, I'll make you go forcefully."

She crosses the clearing and picks me up. The blue sky above me begins to turn a deep black, but it's not the night sky I know filled with the moon and its twinkly stars, it's just darkness. Not beauty, but negativity. It feels as though she is dragging me into the pits of hell as we enter the forest. My breathing becomes constricted and I feel like I'm on fire. For a moment I stare at the light emanating from the clearing from where we just were, but then brambles grow over the hole. This is when the pain sets in. I'm being stabbed and pricked and burned and bitten and electrocuted and beaten and whipped all at once. The pain is excruciating, so much that I can't even scream.

My eyes flash open and I'm staring into the darkness that is my bedroom. I kick the blankets off of me because I'm sweating and sit up on the edge of my bed. I put my head between my knees and stare at the floor between my feet until my breathing has settled enough that I can walk down to the kitchen and get a glass of orange juice. I lean against the counter and slowly sip on my OJ, thinking about my dream. Why is she always trying to get me to go with her? I don't want to go anywhere with her. She left me to go into the darkness, so why should I trust her to lead me into the darkness along with her. I get hurt every time I do. But I get hurt every time I don't. I finish the glass and put it in the dishwasher then go back to lie on my bed. I pull my blanket up to my chin and stare into my room. I opened the blinds some before I laid back down so the moon would shine in. I'm conflicted about the darkness now. I love its beauty, its peacefulness, its calmness. But I don't ever want to experience that negativity, helplessness, and pain ever again.

_But isn't that what I'm living in now?_


	7. Chapter 7 Naruto

**Chapter 5~Naruto**

I don't feel right today. Maybe it's because I didn't eat anything yesterday, or maybe it's because of the strange dream I had last night. I'm lying on my bed with my arms crossed across my chest staring up at the ceiling when my mother knocks on the door. I silently turn my head toward the door and wait for her to open it to make certain that I'm not here. A wave of relief washes over her face when she sees me looking at her. She walks the length of my room and sits on the edge of my bed, running her fingers through my hair.

"I know you don't want to, but you're not going out into the forest today," she says shakily.

I bolt upright, pushing her away, "And who says I can't?"

"I'm going to Chattanooga to go shopping for your school clothes at the mall, and you have to be there to try them on."

"No I don't. You know perfectly well what I do and don't like and what size I am. And if it doesn't fit, I'll just wear my hoodie over it."

"No you won't. You are going, young lady, and I don't want to hear anymore about it. I know you're grieving, Prescilla, but this attitude of yours has gone too far. Now get dressed. We're leaving in an hour."

"I'm not going," I plop back down on the bed and face the wall.

"I'm not having this argument with you, Prescilla! Every day you spend out there in the woods! Every day I wonder how you're eating and what you're doing! Every day I wonder if I'll ever see you again and if I'll end up like Isabella's mom!" her voice has risen to an exhausted scream I've never heard my mother use.

I know I've upset her because of the quiver in her voice. She worries about me a lot more than I give her credit for, but she doesn't have to worry about me leaving her. I'd never leave her, especially not the way Isabella left her mom. How dare she compare me to Isabella like that! I'm nothing like her! I know compassion, and being loved, and what's it's like to have a normal family. She had nothing! Why would I ever throw that all away! Suddenly I'm mad at myself for saying I'm not like Isabella. How could I say such a thing? We were twins of the soul. We did almost everything together every chance we got, and we were always around each other. We loved each other like sisters, and there was nothing that was ever going to change that. Tears start to pour down my face, and I want to run away to the forest and jump into the river. I want the pain of struggling for a breath to keep me at the bottom of the river until I absolutely have to come up for air.

_Why does the idea of pain soothe me?_

I force myself to stop crying and roll over to face my mother. She's no longer standing in the doorway. She either stormed off, enraged at my childish behavior, or went to the attic to cry. I found her there once, after the first day I spent by the river. At this point, it had only been a week. I'd spent every day locked in my room, either silently weeping into my pillow or staring blindly at the ceiling. That day, I just woke up with the idea that I was going to find somewhere else to wallow in my misery. I rose before the sun woke up and packed myself a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, a snack pack, an apple, and a water bottle and headed outside. I had no clue where I was going; I'd only been in the woods a few times with Josh before, but we never went in very far. After a while of traveling around, looking for a pretty place to settle down and eat my lunch, I stumbled across the sound of moving water. I followed it until I arrived at the river. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and for a moment, I didn't think of Isabella. I surveyed the green water and the tall banks on either side of it. There were trees lining the rim of the bank all along both sides, but I decided to walk along it until I found a break big enough for me to sit and partially enjoy myself. After a few hundred feet, I found the perfect spot. There were two large trees growing about fifteen feet apart with their roots hanging over the bank and into the water. So far, they were the largest trees I'd seen out here, and I'd been wandering for a few hours now. This area of the bank dipped, creating sort of a cradle for me to sit in, but the water was closer here. I decided to sit on the bank with my legs swinging over into the water to eat my lunch.

I thought of myself being one of those trees, with my legs being the roots stretching over the side into the water. Maybe it was because of the constant supply of water that they had grown so big. Maybe if I sat there long enough, I'd grow as big and strong as the trees. After all, trees symbolize so much; why wouldn't I want to be a tree? In a lot of ways I am like a tree. I stay in the same place all day, only moving when the wind picks me up. And my tears can be like the leaves, being plucked from way up in the sky and descending slowly to the ground where it'll die without a memory. I thought of how much Isabella wasn't like a tree. For one, she never would have been tall enough to be compared to a tree, but she didn't stay in one place. Literally, during school, she was constantly up out of her seat like an ADD child. She had to be up, moving around. And she was so full of life, not like a tree. Trees only resemble life, but Isabella _owned_ life. Even with all of the problems she was expected to face, whether they are her own or somebody else's, she would always be trying her best to make somebody else feel better. She would always be smiling. She would always be a wonderful friend.

I pulled out my sandwich and my apple and ate. I drank half of my water and finished off my snack pack before deciding to test the water. It wasn't a mucky pond green, it was clear all the way down to the bottom, but the trees' reflections made it green. It was a pretty color, not that of something that would either remind you of or make you want to go vomit. I knew the water was warm from my feet being in it, but I wasn't sure how deep it was. Once I went swimming at this place called Morrison Springs, and you could clearly make out details of the bottom, which at some points was below fifteen feet down. Jumping in was my best choice. I took a running start, pointed my hands above my head, and dove in. the water sloshed around my body and I tightly curved my back to straighten out my dive. The bottom was still far from me, so I swam down to it and looked up. It did not burn my eyes, and I could almost see details in the trees above the river. Using my knowledge from scuba diving, I judged that I was about ten feet down. Running short on air, I kicked off the sandy bottom and shot straight to the top, gasping for air.

I spent the rest of my day swimming in the green water, quite content with the location I had found. I stayed close to the bank in case I needed to quickly pull myself out of the water, but the only creatures I saw were tiny schools of fish. I couldn't tell you what species they were, I just knew it felt cool to have them swimming through your hair and tickling your arms and legs. It was the first day I'd done something other than think about Isabella. Of course, I related almost everything I did to her, but I felt more at peace out there in the water.

I eventually found my way out of the woods by dusk, praying I was able to find my way back to the river, but when I got inside my house, it was empty. I searched every room, but no one was home. Where had they all gone without me? I stopped in the middle of the hallway outside my bedroom and leaned against the wall. I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach was whirling, but I wasn't hungry. My throat tightened and there was an acidic taste on the back of my tongue. I turned my back to the wall and slid down until my knees were by my chest and hugged my belly. This was when I heard the sobs coming from down the hallway. I checked all of the rooms again, but they were empty, so I went to the end of the hallway and opened the attic door. It slowly creaked open and thudded against the wall. I've seen enough horror movies that end with a girl, home alone- following the sounds of crying up into an attic of down in a basement, either being attacked by some hideous monster or the door closes and she's scratched and clawed and bitten by demons to know that wasn't the best idea. But I took the chance and put my foot on the first step.

It creaked loudly under the pressure from never being used, and it sent goose bumps up my arms. I didn't like the idea of being home alone and going into the attic. I'd never liked the attic anyway. There's not much light up there and it's just a room full of dusty boxes, spiders, and cobwebs. It's not exactly what I'd call 'homey.' I creaked my way up the rest of the stairs and poked my head around the corner to check both to the left and to the right before stepping up onto the landing. I heard a long creaking noise behind me, and I turned to check the door. Slowly, but surely, it was swinging closed. The door had latched by the time I reached it. I pulled on the door knob, but the door didn't budge. I checked the top of the stairs behind me and was instantly struck by terror at the sight of a shadowed figure of a human standing of the base of the first step. I'm too terrified to scream; I only start to struggle with the door. I turned around and leaned against the door and it swung out. Of course, I was trying to pull a door that said push. I fell onto my back and turned to run, but the figure ran to me and picked me up. My face was engulfed in curly blond hair, and I was being squeezed into a hug.

"Mom?"

She pulled away and stared into my face. Mascara and eyeliner had streaked down her face. Her expression of joy and relief instantly turns to anger.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick about you!"

"I went into the woods this morning. I've been swimming in the river all day," I say it so harmlessly and like it's something she should just _know_. This, of course, angers her further.

"Do I look like a mind reader to you? I wake up and you're gone! No note, no idea where you've gone, and I thought you'd gone and killed yourself!"

"Why would I kill myself, Mom?" my voice has raised to match hers.

"Because you're acting like you don't want to live anymore! You spend all day in your room, and you won't even come out to eat! I miss you, Prescilla. It's like you don't exist anymore," fresh tears had started to trickle down her cheeks as she said the few words.

For a month after that, I informed her every day before I left, or I'd leave a note on her coffee pot of when I'd be home if I left before she got up. She wasn't thrilled with me still being gone all day, but it was the next step in becoming myself again. She'd wait for me every night in her chair in the corner of the living room. At first, I'd give her a hug and kiss when I came in, then I'd crawl up to my room and go to sleep, but that stopped a while ago when she tried to make me not leave. She tried to make me go out with her. She only asked for my opinion and acceptance, but now, she's telling me I'm not allowed to go out today. She's telling me I _have _to go with her. As much as I'd love to disobey her and go out to the woods and swim, I respect my mother. Some people say they fear their mothers, but I only love and respect mine. I'm not scared of anything she'll do, but I respect her acceptance and approval of things I do. And I don't think I can live with disappointing her anymore.

Thinking back now about how upset she was that first day I was gone, I begin to feel terrible about how I've treated her ever since. I've been selfish, ignoring her and everyone else in the house and being the most disrespectful brat I could possibly be. I think about the other night when she was trying to comfort me and I yelled at her. I don't know why I did, but she didn't retaliate. I'd hurt her feelings, and she just sat there. She yelled at me today, but then she only cried. I've made her emotions as jumbled and confused as mine. I push myself up off the bed and go take a shower. The warm water beating against my back and caressing my body is soothing, and I take my time. After about thirty minutes, I get out and dry off. I look at myself in the mirror again. Brown spheres stare back at me through the reflective glass.

My eyes remind me of Xavier. Suddenly, I really want to go to the field of rose bushes. I'd only told him that maybe I'd see him again, intending wholly on showing up, but I didn't intend on being dragged away from my sanctuary either. I feel terrible. What if Xavier doesn't show up anymore after that? What if I never see him again? I've never seen him before yesterday, but he said he went every day to pick a rose for his mother. This randomly reminds me that I forgot to get Mom a rose yesterday before I came home. Now I feel even worse. Well, I make a silent promise to my mom that I'll smile and laugh today and won't cause any trouble for her. I'll try to act normal.

I dress in denim shorts that barely cover any part of my thigh, a skin-tight sparkly pink shirt with squiggly hearts in the bottom corner, and sparkly pink flats. It's an outfit Mom bought me the other day to try to cheer me up. I'm amazed at what I look like with my hair fixed and make-up on. I haven't dressed up since that day. I go downstairs and join Mom and Josh at the table. Scottie's eating in the bedroom because he doesn't want to be bothered with the anti-social freak, aka: me. But I'm perfectly fine with that, because I've never liked Scottie. He's a selfish, obnoxious, ungrateful, brat. He acts like a five year old with the 'I wants' and the constant pestering. My mother married a 29-year-old man who acts his shoe size. I'm just glad he's not my biological father, if I've ever go as far as calling him my step-dad.

Josh finishes half his plate, kisses mom on the forehead, and gives me a hug before skipping down the hallway beside the stairs and reinstating himself in his videogames. Loud sounds of gunshots and the high-pitched squeal from a flash bang emanate from down the hallway, followed by loud cursing and the closing of his door. The sounds subside and Mom and I sit in silence once again. I reach across the table and hold her hand in mine.

"Is Josh not coming with us today? Or Scottie for that matter?"

"No, I took Josh last weekend, and I don't feel like dealing with Scottie's toddler shit today," she says clearing her plate and taking it to the sink.

I cross to the sink and put all the plates into the dishwasher and wash all of the pots and spatulas that were used for making breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs, sausage, and honey croissants. It was delicious. After I've wiped down the counters and swept the floor, I join Mom outside on the porch where she's smoking a cigarette. She's already dressed and has her makeup done, but her hair is still a wet, wavy mess from taking a shower. After she's finished smoking, she'll go dry her hair and we'll leave. I don't have to ask her this, I just know. Her emotions may be jumbled, but her weekend routine is still the same. At least, I think it's the weekend. Mom and Scottie have to work otherwise.

My mom is an LPN working at some nursing home up in Dalton. She went back to school about five years ago and was the first person on her side of the family to actually graduate from college in over four generations. I was really proud of her; we all were. She'd achieved something she had set out to do, and passed with flying colors. My mom has passed her strength, determination, and brains down to me more-so than my brother, but lately I haven't been using any of it. It's like she said, I don't want to live anymore. It's strange how thinking of these things she's said to me can make me feel like such a bad person.

She throws her cigarette into the tin bucket between the two chairs and goes inside the house to fix her hair. I wait for her on the porch until she comes outside with her hair dried straight and curling in just below her jaw line. The keys jingle in her hand as she walks down the steps and across the gravel pathway to her car. She made this pathway that I walk on now; maybe it's not such a bad idea if I follow her on it. I go around the other side of the small red car and get in the passenger seat.

The ride to Chattanooga takes about two and a half hours, but the time passes quickly. Mom and I talk about the summer and her work and what I do all day. We sing along to songs on the radio when there's nothing else to talk about. When we get off the interstate, mom pulls into the parking lot of The Macaroni Grill. It's a place we've been before when Josh and Scottie were with us. It was some of the yummiest food I'd ever had. We eat and enjoy ourselves and I actually laugh. We go shopping in the mall and a few other stores around the area, and I try on a million clothes. I think Mom is trying her hardest to cheer me up and make sure I have a good day, because she spends a little too much money on this cute purple and yellow dress and denim jacket to cover it.

As we're leaving the mall, an idea hits me. "Hey, Mom? Can we go get my hair cut?"

"I guess if you want. What did you have in mind?"

I pause slightly to check that no cars are going to run me over if I cross the parking lot, "I wanted to dye the highlights out of it. You know, back to my normal color. And cut it up to my shoulders."

She thinks about this until we get to the car and put the bags in the trunk, "Well I guess if that's what you want."

"Thank you, Mommy," I say, giving her a giant, squeezy hug.

I want to create a new me. I want to look new, I want to act new, and I want to get my life back on track. I know I'm just saying this now and that by tomorrow I'll be back on my normal routine, but eventually I'll break free of these chains, and this is where it has to start. The closer we get to the barber, the faster my hard begins to pound in my chest, and by the time were pulling into the parking lot, I think my heart-beat is going to cause another earthquake in Haiti. This is the first step in moving forward and letting go, but I don't know how ready I am to do either of those things. There's so much I didn't know about her that I was trying to know. We hadn't spoken in a while, and our friendship had sort of diminished, but she still kept it strong. And I was trying to pull myself back into her life, but now I only have the memories that she gave me and the remains of her love.

There's a sensor on the inside of the barber shop door that sets off a charming alarm to alert the employees that customers have arrived. A woman with a blonde pixie-cut greets us at the counter by the doors. The tips of her hair are a baby pink and have been gelled to spike on the back of her neck. She has a cute nose ring in the shape of a rose in the right side of her nose and sparkly dangling earrings hanging from her lobes. Her make-up is soft, not gaudy and clumped up around her face, and her smile is pleasant.

"How may I help ya'll today?" she says with a cheery southern drawl.

"My daughter would like a color and cut."

I stare at the racks of colorful shampoos and conditioners lining the walls along the front of the store. There are ten chairs for clients to sit in, but they're all occupied, so I take my seat beside a girl with long black hair on the plush red couch pressed against the front glass. There's a mahogany coffee table placed in front of the couch with coasters and magazines lying on it. I think about picking one up, but then I think of all the nasty people who cough into their hands and then touch them. I cross my ankles and lean against the back of the sofa, watching my mom give the lady behind the counter a few dollar bills. She walks over and plops beside me, letting out a long sigh. She always yells at me for plopping, but look at her now.

Eventually, someone says my name, and I'm escorted to a chair. A guy with short, spiky dark hair wraps a {…..} around my neck and steps on a lever under the chair until I'm at the height he wants me. He has pretty green eyes lined with silver eyeliner and his arm muscles poke out from under his black shirt. If he wasn't gay and I was in a better mood, I'd be all over him. He dyes my hair and washes it, but the lady with the nose ring is the one who cuts it. This saddens me, because I cannot see him in the mirror anymore. He had to dye the hair of the woman I sat beside on the couch. Apparently she only trusts this man to do anything to her hair, so she agreed to wait a moment longer while he dyed my hair, since it would take less than half the time hers would. I believe it's because she intends on turning him straight one day.

I brace myself against the chair at the first snipping sound of scissors and watch as she drops four inches of hair to the floor. I will not cry. I will endure this and come out a new person. Just to be on the safe side and as a little surprise for myself, I ask her to turn my chair around before she continues. This also gives me a better view of the guy who dyed my hair. He's finishing up with placing tinfoil around the woman's head when the girl with the rose nose ring swivels me away from him to cut my bangs. I watch the glint on the scissors as she weaves around different strands of hair and snips hem off. Seven inches of hair falls onto my lap, and I struggle to hold back the tears. My mom suggests something to the woman cutting my hair and she swivels me back around to cut more at my hair.

The man has left the girl to allow her hair adequate time to dye and gone off to cut somebody else's hair while mine is being dried for me to look at. I can hear the blood pumping behind my ears, and I'm swiveled one last time to look at my hair. I've been transformed into a totally different person. Admitted, I'm still scared about the whole 'moving forward' thing, but this hair cut was totally worth it. My hair frames my face perfectly, curling in just above my shoulders and cut in different layers. I'm not sure, but I think at some point, she took a razor to the top of it. My bangs sweep from the far right side of my head across my brow, allowing perfect visibility of my eyes. The change back to my normal shade of brown really makes my eyes pop, since both my hair and my eyes are almost black.

"I really like that. You look so much better with all that hair out of your face," Mom says, even though the hair cut is styled to have hair in my face, whereas my old one was cut at one straight length. "How much will the cost?"

"Forty dollars."

"Oh. Well, if I'm going to be spending money, I might as well get a touch-eup on my roots."

There's no one left sitting in the waiting room, so Mom takes my chair, and the lady gets to work on her hair. I lean against the counter and watch the man take the tinfoil out of that girl's hair and wash it in the sink. He conditions it before ushering her back to her chair and snipping at it with a pair of scissors. My mom's hair is foiled and just ready to sit by the time he's done cutting her hair. It's shorter than mine, but not quite a pixie cut. It's not blonde with outrageous pink tips like the woman styling my mom's hair, but it's now a lush brown color with streaks of golden blonde highlighted throughout it. The florescent lights reflect off of the newly polished hair and the white smile to go with it. Woman hugs the man who cut her hair and gives him a million thanks. She's clearly very delighted with her transformation, more so than I was. Who knows what her story is, but she's glad to be on the path of writing a new one. And that's what I need to do. Put a smile on my face and write myself a new story. A better one that doesn't involve Isabella. Maybe I can find a way to add Xavier into it.

_Damnit! What am I thinking? I don't even know this boy. For all I know, he could be some crazy rapist person looking to kill me. Or maybe not. But either way, I don't know him enough to already be thinking about a future with him, let alone __**him**__! Uhg, I need to push these thoughts out of my head!_

After Mom's hair is finished, we go to Barnes and Nobles to buy this trilogy she's looking for and to get some coffee from Starbucks. While she waits in line for the coffee, I browse the shelves for her book. I stumble upon a section of mangas, which I didn't figure they'd sell in a Barnes and Nobles. As I walk down the aisle, the main thing I see is Bleach. I've read up to book twelve, but I didn't find them to be very interesting. They're all the same. Some Hollow starts attacking people and Ichigo turns into a Soul Reaper and kills them. Blah, blah, blah. Although I'll admit, some parts are quite humorous. My heart drops when I see the Naruto manga. That was her guilty pleasure. I manage to stop the tear from trickling down my face, but I can't help myself. I ask mom to get it for me.

I'm silent on the ride home, and I lock myself in my room when we get there. I read the manga six times before I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I fall asleep with the book grasped tightly in my hands across my chest. Tonight there's no nightmare, no pleasant dream, just sleep. It don't know how much I'd call it a peaceful sleep, because when I wake up I feel as those I haven't slept a wink, but at least my pillow is dry. I drag myself downstairs and pull a chair out from under the kitchen table. There's already a plate set for me of waffles with a drop of melted butter in the center of them and another small plate set aside with scrambled eggs and two slices of cinnamon sausage.

I drown my waffles in syrup and dip the sausage in what's left over. Most people think I'm nasty for this, but I put ketchup on my scrambled eggs. But only when they're scrambled. You don't want ketchup on Eggs Benedict or a deviled egg. That just doesn't taste right. But scrambled eggs taste great with ketchup. I started doing it because my brother's ketchup mixed in his eggs once and he fell in love with it. Of course, being only five, I copied everything my big brother did. If he liked it, then I liked it too. He prefers pepper and a pound of cheese on his scrambled eggs now, but I still eat them with ketchup. I clean off my plates and put them in the dish washer before guzzling down a glass of orange juice, grabbing my manga, and heading to the field of roses. I don't scold myself for hoping Xavier's there.

He's sitting on my patch of bent grass when I enter the clearing. I can't help but smile to myself. I know he's a stranger, but there's something about him that makes my heart beat faster than normal. And that smile. I don't think I can say enough about that smile- or his eyes for that matter. I stand there for a moment longer before creeping over to a push to pluck a rose and put behind me ear. He doesn't notice me when I'm behind him so I fluff out my blanket as loudly as I can and lay it over top of him. This makes him laugh. He helps me lay out the big blanket and sits on it with me after I get settled down.

"I didn't see you yesterday," he says to me after a moment.

"You didn't? I could've sworn you saw me while I watching you eat dinner last night," I tease.

"Aha! So that _was _ you!" we laugh about that for a minute before I explain to him I went out with my mom. "I thought your hair looked different. I like it."

"Thank you," I can't help but smile, even if I'm smiling at the blanket.

"So what'cha got there?" he says pointing at my book.

"Just something I picked up yesterday while we were out.

"You enjoy reading?" he asks, taking the book from my hands to read the description on the back.

"Yeah, I enjoy writing too. But I haven't written much since…" I can't bring myself to talk about it.

"Since when?"

"Since my best friend died."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear about that," he places the book back in my hands and I can tell by the tone in his voice that he wants to do something to cheer me up.

"It's fine. It happened a few months ago. Fell on a knife and bled to death in her driveway," I tell him.

"That's awful!"

"Yeah. She was running away, and her dog tripped her. Went tumbling down the hill and rolled onto the knife."

"Why was she running away?"

"She'd just stabbed her father to death."

"Oh."

I can tell by his reply he thinks she was a crazy lunatic and might be questioning my sanity. I realize that I've told him too much. He already knows more than my mother does. I told her that Isabella's dad killed her and kicked her down the hill, then went mad with guilt and killed himself. I couldn't have her thinking that she was a murderer. She wouldn't understand anything if I told her the truth. Nobody would.

"She had a rough life," is all I say.

"Doesn't mean you go and kill someone over it."

"You have _no_ idea what she had to go through every day! So don't you go and say she jumped off the deep end!" I try to stand up for her, but the look on Xavier's face tells me I may be the one jumping off the deep end. Tears spring up in my eyes, and I grab my book to run away, but he pulls me into a hug. This stops all the tears that may have leapt forward. Angrily, I push myself away from him. "I don't know a single thing about you. I just met you two days ago, but I can't stop thinking about you. You're like a virus; you never go away. But I want you to. You just make things worse. And don't _ever_ hug me again." I grab my book and run off, leaving the blanket.

_He reminds me so much of you._


End file.
